


Bloodstone

by Shadowdust258



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdust258/pseuds/Shadowdust258
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or "Four times Gendry let Arya leave without him, and one time he didn't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodstone

The days grow darker.

Gendry can feel the warmth of summer leaving his bones, and a cold shiver runs down his spine when he thinks of what winter will bring. War will come- a different kind of war than the one that has been slowly ebbing, climaxing, and repeating for more years than he can care to remember- and with that starvation will surely devastate the people of Westeros. In addition to that, rumours still persist of Whitewalkers beyond the Wall, and the thought of that never ceases to turn his stomach inside out. He tries not to think of such things, to lose himself in blissful ignorance, to bury his head in the hot Dornish sand he had only heard about in stories, to be as clueless as he used to be in King’s Landing so many years ago, but his thoughts tend to wander freely when he is hammering in his forge and never to the subjects he would like.

“Do you even know how to smile?” a voice asks from behind him. 

Turning, he finds Willow sitting on the worktable opposite him, nonchalantly popping pieces of bread into her mouth as she watches him work. In spite of himself, memories of a similar scene at Harrenhal flash in front of his eyes. Oftentimes when he looks at Willow, she reminds him of a girl he once knew, a girl he has never been able to forget, no matter how hard he has tried. 

The trace she left behind has crawled up inside him and twined itself tightly around his soul. It’s odd, he thinks, that someone who stayed in his life for such a short period of time still has such a great impact on it. He finds the essence of her in the way Willow looks at him when she’s angry, or the sound of a Northern accent when it reaches his ears. Whenever it is left to him to break up fights at the inn, Gendry finds himself thinking of the day she had dared to throw a crabapple at his head, or the feel of her tiny fists as they wrestled in the forge at Acorn Hall. Sometimes, when a traveller comes to the inn in a bad condition, he thinks of the lengths she went to to survive. Even munching on bugs, if he remembers correctly. 

In the beginning, he would find pieces of her everywhere he looked, but now it is getting harder and harder to grasp at those memories. 

Gendry sometimes thinks that it is for the best.

One detail he will never forget, however, is the last look she gave him before they parted ways; a fierce expression that combined so many emotions that he had struggled to name them all. But, even now, he could conjure up that look without as much as an ounce of effort. Indeed, of all the things he has seen in his life, that look is the one that constantly haunts him in those brief moments between consciousness and unconsciousness, a memory that never ceases to leave a bad taste in his mouth. He may not be able to accurately recall her face any longer, but that look of hurt in her stormy grey eyes is something he is certain will plague him, even in his old age. “Yes, I just never have cause to,” he retorts quickly. Too quickly for it to be a casual answer. He had intended for it to come out as a jape, but as the words leave his mouth his tone takes on a more serious edge, and he sees a frown forming on Willow’s face. 

“Why?” 

Gendry groans inwardly as the question slips from her lips. He has a million answers to that question, but not one of them would answer it completely. Laying down his hammer and quirking his eyebrow, he says, “Because I have you annoying me every second of every day.” 

The eyeroll that Willow gives him after that particular comment is one that she has been perfecting for years, and Gendry has to admit that it is one of the best he has ever encountered. Pushing herself down from the worktable, Willow heads for the entrance of the forge. “Jeyne needs your help tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits, her face half-shrouded in the darkness of the evening.

“I’ll be there,” he promises. 

Picking up his hammer, he returns to his work, and, not for the first time, he thinks that if he had a coin for every time Arya Stark crossed his mind, he would be a very rich man indeed.

He wonders if people will sing songs about the lost princess of Winterfell, and, as an afterthought, he thinks darkly that no-one will sing songs of her friend who had stayed behind. 

___________________

 

The inn is crowded. 

Every single space on the benches is occupied, and the rowdy atmosphere makes Gendry nervous. He is well aware that it hides the tense attitudes of the inn’s guests. A sense of foreboding has settled over Westeros, and fights have become more and more frequent in Gendry’s time at the inn. Since it is his job to break up any physical altercations, he sincerely hopes none of the arguments currently being waged break into fisticuffs or, even worse, a swordfight, on his watch. Many scars have been added to his collection since his time here, and he is in no way eager to add any more. 

Glancing around, he sees Jeyne winding in and out of the crowd, sweat glistening on her brow as she tries to serve up stew to all the guests. Frowning, he starts to walk towards her, to try and help her out a little, but the tug of a small hand on his sleeve stops him.

Willow looks up at him, her brown eyes anxious. “There’s something happening outside,” she reports, and Gendry does not hesitate before following her to investigate.  
Shadows fall around the courtyard, and the stars and the half-hidden moon provide the only light. A scuffling noise catches his attention and he hastily makes his way towards the sound, a frown marring his features. He can hear Willow’s soft footsteps behind him, wisely leaving a short distance between them in case she needs to run back and get help. 

As he turns the corner, two figures, clothed in dark-coloured cloaks, come into view. Gendry is alarmed to find that one of the figures is much smaller than the other. It is not a fair fight in the slightest.

“What’s going on here?” he calls as he nears them.

His question goes unnoticed, or mayhaps it is noticed and they just don’t give a damn. Either way, Gendry knows that it is his duty to break up whatever altercation is going on here and send the perpetrators on their way. Jeyne does not tolerate gross misbehaviour in the slightest, and Gendry is more than inclined to agree with her. If the inn gets a bad reputation, richer customers might find their accommodation elsewhere during their travels, and the last thing they need is a decline in business. Not when they have so many orphans to feed. 

And especially not with winter coming.

The bigger silhouette, whom Gendry presumes is a man- although, after seeing the stature of Brienne of Tarth, he could not make that claim with absolute certainty- has a crushing hand around the wrist of the other figure. The smaller figure is struggling wildly, and Gendry swears he hears a snarl escape their mouth as they are backed against the wall of the inn.

Gendry sees the man lean down and hiss something to the other figure, and he is surprised to hear a female voice answering back. “This isn’t satisfying me in the slightest,” she says, “but I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.” Her voice is steady, not wavering in the slightest, and Gendry has to admire her guts. The mirthless chuckle that leaves her lips causes a slight hint of nervousness to soar up in his abdomen however. If he were a betting man, he would wager every single coin he has on the possibility that this woman is far more dangerous than the fool that is currently holding her captive. His suspicions are confirmed when he sees the silver glint of a dagger in her small hand. A quick glance at her dark eyes is all Gendry needs to determine that she knows how to use it. 

“Stop what you’re doing!” Gendry orders. His voice booms around the courtyard, bouncing off the walls, and echoing back to them again. Jeyne would flay him alive if she has to clean up more bloodstains, and Gendry would very much prefer not to encounter her wrath, thank you very much. 

His words startle the man, and, in an instant, the woman has swapped their positions. Her knife presses against the pale, exposed skin of the man’s neck, and Gendry sees his expression instantly turn to one of undeniable fear. A drop of red blood runs slowly down his skin and disappears into his clothing, and Gendry is fairly certain that the man has less than thirty seconds before he pisses himself. 

“Stop what you’re doing,” Gendry repeats, his voice hard, gruff, and commanding. The sound of Willow’s footsteps retreating back to the inn reach his ears, and Gendry is relieved that she has the good sense to call for back-up. 

There is no mistaking the fuming hatred in the eyes of the girl when she throws a brief glance his way, and it unsettles Gendry to find that there is something oddly familiar in her gaze. Slowly, she gives him a double-take, her eyes staying on his for what seems like an eternity, and Gendry sees her rage dwindle to confusion in exactly zero seconds.  


He hardly notices the dagger becoming looser in her hand, his eyes captivated by hers although he does not know why. But her attacker _does_ , and before either of them can react, he propels her away from him, the force of his fist colliding with her abdomen. A grunt escapes her lips as she slams down on the cold, stone ground, and, in a flash, her attacker runs, disappearing into the black night and leaving Gendry alone with the girl. 

He knows that he should ask if she is alright, but it is a different question that flies out of his mouth before he can remember his manners, “Who are you?” he asks. The feeling of familiarity is one that he cannot shake, and butterflies begin to dance a vicious jig in his stomach. It’s madness, he thinks, but he takes a deep breath to quell his nerves and waits in anticipation for her answer anyway.

The impact of the fall has dislodged her hood and now messy, dark-coloured tresses tumble down her back. She scoops a handful and places it behind one of her ears, and in response to his question she utters, “You know my name.” Her eyes do not meet his as she speaks, and it almost seems to Gendry that she is avoiding his gaze.

He does not understand and after a slight pause, in which he tries to figure out what to say or do next, her eyes return to his. They are stark, and grey, and _burning_ , and Gendry is nearly frightened of the emotions hidden in their depths. “You _know_ my name,” she repeats. 

The faint hint of a song sweeps through the walls, one that Gendry feels like he knows, although he is sure he has not heard it in years. When the lyrics find his ears, it hits him like a full-force blow to his chest. Staggered, he can only breathe one word. “ _Arya_ ,” he says, so reverently that it is seems like a prayer, and, oh, but it’s devastating how tears well up in her eyes at the sound of it. Frowning, Gendry thinks it is almost like she _needed_ it to be said. He suspects that she had forgotten the sound of her own name on the tongue of another. Indeed, as his tongue curls around it, caressing the syllables, it seems foreign to him. It has been so many years since he has had cause to use it, and he wonders how long it has been since she has had cause to hear it. 

“Yes,” she says simply. The seed of a smile is planted on her lips, but it does not blossom.

Gendry reaches out a hand to help her up, and she only hesitates for a moment before accepting. Her hand is warm in his despite the cold, and a flare of red-hot anger heats up inside him when he sees her other hand cradling her abdomen. A deep urge to chase after her attacker washes over him, but he knows he is too far gone at this stage. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’ve had worse,” Arya replies with a grimace. 

“Come inside,” he suggests. “I’ll get you some food and you can rest.”

“Thank you,” she says softly.

He moves his hand to her elbow to help her walk, but she shrugs him off. “I can manage,” she says, and Gendry cannot help the slight smile that appears on his face. It would seem that Arya Stark was still the same stubborn girl who had insisted time after time that she was under no circumstances a lady, despite all evidence to the contrary. Strangely, that makes him glad.

As he sits across the table from her in the inn, he cannot help but sneak glances at her. She devours her stew, hardly pausing for breath, and Gendry wonders when the last time she had a proper meal was. 

While she eats, he takes in all the ways she has changed; her hair is much longer, landing in tussled waves down her back, her features are sharper, and, now that her cloak is discarded, he can see the soft, subtle curves that fill out her tattered gown. For a moment, Gendry finds himself struck by how beautiful she has turned out to be, but he quickly pushes that particular thought aside. He should not be thinking of her that way. “What are your plans?” he asks, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle smiles Willow and Jeyne are throwing in their direction.

She looks at him warily and, after a delay, she apparently decides that she can trust him with her plans. “Rumour has it that my siblings are gathering an army to take back Winterfell,” she says quietly, so quietly that he can barely hear it over the noise and merriment around them. “I plan on joining them.”

“A lady should not be travelling around these parts alone,” Gendry warns, “and they say the North has become very dangerous.”

“ _I’m_ dangerous,” Arya declares.

“But-“ 

Annoyance glints in her eyes as well as a blatant determination, and an unbreakable stubbornness. “ _Ser_ , I would appreciate if you did not finish that sentence. Otherwise, I will be forced to stick my dagger in your gut.”

“There are Lannister soldiers on the prowl everywhere,” he tries again. “When they catch you, they _will_ kill you.”

“They’ll have to catch me first,” is all she says. In that moment, Gendry has no doubt that she will be gone before morning comes, and from the look on her face he knows that he has no chance of changing her mind, so he doesn’t try.

As she rises, leaving him alone with nothing but his goblet of wine, Gendry considers the fact that many singers will write songs about the lost wolf who risked everything to rejoin her pack, but none will write songs about the blacksmith who never had a pack to call his own.

 

________________________________________________________________

Willow orders him to follow her.

When he wakes the next day, Arya is long gone. Just as he knew she would be. Her bed is cold to the touch, and if Gendry had to hazard a guess, he would say she had been gone before dawn had broken in the skies. Disappointment flows through his veins at the thought of losing his friend once more, but he quickly buries it. 

He was right to let her go, he tries to convince himself. He would never have been able to stop her anyway. Arya Stark is a force to be reckoned with, he thinks. Her stubbornness could bend the course of the wind, and he is certain not even dragons would be able to halt her in the pursuit of what she wanted.

Gendry would have remained at his forge too if Willow had not been quick to suggest that he follow behind. Jeyne readily agrees with her, and his protests meet deaf ears. Both assure him that they are well capable of managing without a bull-headed blacksmith around, which Gendry finds especially charming, and that his first priority should be to his friend.

“You’ve helped us for long enough,” Jeyne says with a wan smile.

And, so, Gendry is practically shoved out the door of the inn, a bag of supplies and a sword in his hands with a strict order from Jeyne to search the next town. Gritting his teeth, he saddles a horse, and heads on his way, cursing them both under his breath. 

It is market day and the town is bursting with people. The crowd does nothing to improve Gendry’s mood, and the sun prickles his skin as he visits inn after inn, tavern after tavern, to try and find information on Arya’s whereabouts. He is hungry, exhausted, and rather annoyed by the time evening rolls around, but that frustration immediately disappears when he sees a familiar figure sitting alone in the corner of a tavern. 

“Arya,” he says when he reaches her, a burst of relief and what he thinks to be happiness welling up inside him. A hint of nervousness swirls around inside him as well; he does not know if she wants him there or what use he could even be to her. However, all this promptly fades to nothingness when he sees the tears shimmering in her grey eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks, taking the seat opposite her, concern evident on his face.

Surprised, she runs the edge of her sleeve across her eyes, but she does not ask why he is there. Gendry thinks that mayhaps she already knows. She takes a few seconds before answering, her attention occupied by her goblet of sourwine. “They told me the wolves had come again.” 

Her grey eyes flicker up to meet his gaze, and Gendry is uncertain how to respond. “I have heard the rumours as well,” he assures her, and he speaks the truth. Rumours have been fluttering around on the wind for moons now of how House Stark was finally ready to take back what was theirs. But isn’t that why she had come back? She had said as much last night, had she not?

“But not all of them,” she says. “I’ve _asked_. They say Rickon and Sansa are all that is left. Father, Mother, Robb, and Jon are dead and no-one has seen or heard from Bran in years. All I have left is a sister who has never liked me and a brother who won’t even recognise me.” She takes a gulp from her goblet of sourwine, wincing as the bitter liquid slides down her throat, and before Gendry can think of anything to say, she asks softly, “What if they don’t want me back?”

Just for a second, Gendry catches a glimpse of the young, naive girl who had asked him to go with her to Riverrun to make swords for her brother, and it breaks his heart that that girl is gone now. He wonders if he had played a part in that. He wondered what _else_ had played a part in that. Where had Arya Stark been for the last five years? What had she done? But, more importantly, who had she been? He knows for certain that she had not been Arya Stark; that much has been obvious from their first encounter outside the inn.  
A thousand questions come to his lips, but he bites them back. Instead, he swallows thickly before answering, “They will.” His tone is firm, and he likes the fact that her sorrow seems to lessen a little at his words. He likes it very much. 

They stay in the tavern, ordering more drinks, and talking until the wee hours of the morning. Gendry tells her about life with the Brotherhood Without Banners, how he came to live and work at the inn, and, eventually, after drinking his body weight in ale, he confesses that he missed her while she was gone. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to tell her that he may have forgotten the exact curve of her smile and the sound of her laugh, but he had never been able to forget her. The words tangle on his tongue though and never reach the air, and Gendry thinks mayhaps it might be for the best. What use has a lady for the pretty words of a bastard?

In return, Arya tells him of Braavos. Her eyes cloud over at some parts, and Gendry can sense that she has skipped some of the details, but with a smile on her face and with her cheeks rosy from the alcohol, Gendry thinks that she had never looked more beautiful. 

Finally, they tire of the increasingly rowdy atmosphere in the tavern and make their way outside. A light breeze ripples through Arya’s hair, sending it in all directions, and, in the sweet glow of the moonlight, Gendry is struck by how it easy it is to believe that they are equals. 

“I want to see the stars,” Arya announces, happiness or mayhaps the effects of the alcohol forcing her lips into a wide smile.

“Then, look up,” Gendry answers. 

Arya shakes her head, and the eyeroll she gives him surpasses even Willow’s finest attempts. “I want to see them _closer_.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a dragon, Lady Stark,” Gendry replies. “You’re just going to make do with seeing them from here.”

“That’s not acceptable, _Ser_ ,” she says. “I’d like you a whole lot more if you did have one.” She glances up and down the street as if she is searching for something. “And I’m not a lady,” she adds as an afterthought. 

“I’ll look into acquiring one,” Gendry replies drily. 

He watches as she walks towards some crates and when she starts to climb them, he shakes his head in disbelief. “What are you waiting for?” she calls over her shoulder.

“I’m not climbing-“ he begins.

Arya pauses on the second crate and glances down at him with a look of utter disdain on her face. “Oh, yes, you bloody well are!” she says. 

Gendry quirks an eyebrow, “You know, for someone who claims to not be a lady, you can sure act like one sometimes.”

Smoothly, she raises herself onto the rooftop next to the crates. “Stop bickering and just get up here,” she orders, and Gendry reluctantly complies. 

He lands on the flat, stone rooftop with a thump, and Arya gives him a smile. It’s good to see her smile, he thinks. “I’m glad you decided to join me,” she says wryly. 

“I do as milady commands,” Gendry says, sitting down next to her, and he is rewarded with a sharp slap on the arm for his insolence, causing him to chuckle. They sit in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the night their only company before Gendry asks, “Are the stars to your liking?”

“Very much so,” she replies, her eyes focused on the twinkling balls of fire above their heads. “Thank you for coming to find me, Gendry. I did not want to do this alone,” she admits. Her voice is quiet, almost like what she’s saying is a weakness that she is ashamed of. He wonders if he should tell her that loneliness is a bastard’s constant and sometimes only visitor, but he thinks better of it or rather he gets distracted by how lovely her lips seem in the moonlight. Entranced, he spends the next few moments imagining how a kiss would taste and another few moments after that berating himself for even thinking such things.

Slowly, Arya turns her head to face him, a lazy smile taking up residence on her face. And Gendry knows it is wrong, but even that does not stop him from pressing his lips to hers.

It is barely a whisper of a kiss, but it happens all the same. 

Breaking away, Gendry feels the contents of his stomach turn to liquid acid; the alcohol, the maelstrom of thoughts, and the overwhelming doubt collide in his head to make him feel incredibly dizzy. He half expects her to slap him across the face. Indeed, he almost thinks he would prefer a slap across the face. 

But Arya’s returning kiss purges him of any lingering doubt. She doesn’t allow him time to think and for that he is grateful. If he hesitates for a second this sweetness might be gone, and he sincerely wishes for it never to end. Her mouth is hot and fierce on his and he can taste a tangy hint of sourwine on her lips. Just the taste sets his nerves ablaze, and he wonders if she knows that bastards are lonely creatures longing to be loved.

Groaning, he cannot help but gather her closer, her warm body slipping into his lap with ease while her small hands tangle in his messy locks of hair. An undeniable fire surges through his veins at the contact, and his calloused hands ghost up the small of her back. He thinks he must have imagined the minute whimper that escapes her lips, but, nonetheless, his arms pull her tighter against him, and his tongue slips eagerly inside her mouth. 

She responds with unbridled enthusiasm and, hazily, Gendry thinks he must be dreaming. That is the only possible explanation for this. If this were real, he would be smouldered to nothing in a heartbeat.

It is only when a moan escapes her lips and her nimble fingers move from his hair to tangle in his shirt and skim the top of his britches that Gendry stops. And he can see from her eyes that she immediately knows what he’s thinking. “I’m not a child,” she grits out through swollen, pink lips.

“No,” Gendry agrees softly. _You’re definitely not that anymore_. His hands fall from her back before he says, “But you are a lady and I am just a bastard.”

Her face turns to stone before cracking into anger. “Don’t do that,” she orders, but Gendry does not listen, and he knows that she can see on his face that he will not alter his decision in this regard. “Oh, sod you and your bloody courtesies!” she says, fury swirling in her grey eyes. 

She slides off his lap and Gendry is utterly lost when the warmth of her body is replaced by the cool, sharp air of the late night. Arya moves to leave, and Gendry tries to follow, but she spins around to face him, and he physically recoils from the storm brewing in her eyes. 

“Don’t bother!” she snaps. Blinking back hot, angry tears, she lets out a sound that is half –disgust, half-laughter, and there is a hint of pain evident in her eyes as she says, “You always were good at letting me go.”

As he sits on the rooftop alone, watching the sun turn all the darkness to light, he realises that she is wrong. He may have been good at letting her leave, but he had never been good at letting her go.

As an afterthought, he thinks that the singers will sing songs of the lady who retook Winterfell for the honour of her family, but nobody will sing songs about the bastard who stupidly dreamed of courting her.


End file.
